For Good
by Celesma
Summary: "From the very beginning, he'd only had one priority: to guide and protect Vash. As far as he was concerned, his part was over." After their escape from Knives's Ark, Wolfwood resolves to walk out of Vash's life for good. Sequel to Titanium.


A/N: As stated in the summary, this is a sequel to Titanium. (Ugh, I hate writing author's notes... but for this story they're necessary.) Um, a couple things:

1) I was reading a lot of Stephen King at the time and I realized that as a character, Wolfwood would very much fit in as the protagonist of one of his novels (if you've read any of King's stuff then you probably know what I'm talking about). As a result, most of this is an exercise in emulating his very descriptive, pulpy writing style. (This also accounts for its insane length. I'm typically long-winded, but not _that_ long-winded.) Expect much introspection and cursing.

2) I was sort of vaguely inspired by the song "For Good" from the Broadway musical Wicked. The infinitely talented fanartist **JereduLevenin** has pointed out that if you replace Elphaba with Vash and Glinda with Wolfwood, the lyrics of the song describe their relationship perfectly. (So much so that I actually sneaked in a reference to one of the lyrics... I'm awful, I know. 8D)

3) This gets fairly... risqué towards the end, so I'm rating it M. I think it's fairly tasteful, but I give myself no quarter when it comes to ratings. I realized that I really seem to gravitate towards hurt/comfort for some reason. (Once again, I am _awful_.)

* * *

**For Good**

He had still been in the desert when he closed his eyes, securely mired in what he thought could only be the hallmarks of a beautiful dream

_(darkness, feathers, the feeling of an arm around his neck)  
_  
but when he opened them again, some inestimable amount of time later, he found himself in a far more disappointing reality. He remembered peering around a stark white room at vaguely creepy medical contraptions and tightly made-up hospital beds, completely disoriented (and growing increasingly distressed by the inexplicable draft in his nether regions), before finally uttering the first thing that came into his head:

"Who the _hell_ thought they could strip me and stick me in this assless mumu?!"

It's been said that reality is a bitch, and also that reality fucks us over. This whole last week Wolfwood felt he could speak to the veracity of both schools of thought.

It was the day after Wolfwood's one-man siege on the Ark, and the priest was currently reflecting on the aftermath of his work – a good chunk of which he'd been completely unconscious for and had to be told about later. Just as he had hoped, the SEEDS people had shown up to rescue him and Vash after the two of them narrowly escaped Knives's floating house of horrors, where he'd been holding Vash and an assortment of his plant sisters as pawns in his war against humanity. The small vehicle used to locate them then hightailed it back to the mothership, where they were taken into the custody of medics in the hospital bay.

Wolfwood checked himself out early to go look for Vash (sans mumu, of course), but was quickly pressed into attending a debriefing session, to which he reluctantly agreed. To his chagrin, it lasted quite a bit longer than he'd expected, and almost none of the news was good. While what was left of Gunsmoke's military had managed to actually land a blow on Knives (and Knives himself was proving to be increasingly out of his depth when it came to controlling the plants he'd absorbed), the jackass hadn't been swayed from his goal of depriving every major city of the plants they needed to survive. (One of his destinations was said to be East December, to which Wolfwood's stomach gave a queasy little flip.) The SEEDS ship's only hope right now was to try to stay ahead of the Ark and help vacate the targeted cities, hoping that Vash would be able to stop his brother before the situation became uncontainable – and before the Earth ships, which Knives planned to destroy even before they could clear the atmosphere, got anywhere near the planet. Right now the ship was stationed over a small town and would remain so for the next few days, until more plants could be brought on board to fuel the long and arduous journey required to overtake Knives.

He'd also learned that the girls – Millie and Meryl, that is – had come and gone the week before, embarking on scouting trips to try and get more intel about what the hell else was going on in this rapidly splintering New World. Short Stuff, in particular, had shown some of her usual initiative and delivered a make of Vash's gun before she left.

Finally, he'd learned that they'd checked his vitals while he was sleeping in the hospital bay – subjecting him to electric stimuli in order to measure his responses – and while the charts had shown plenty of wacky abnormalities they couldn't make heads or tails of, his actual physical condition was perfect. So his health all checked out, but then he hadn't been expecting any different. Such was the power of the vials.

As for Vash: he hadn't responded to any of the stimuli at all, and they couldn't wake him up either. This was a major cause for alarm for those whom had placed their hopes for survival in him (which was to say, _everyone_), and he'd been rushed directly to the emergency ward. Wolfwood had gone straight there after his debriefing, where a group of people were gathered outside the doors, praying for his recovery. Wolfwood also prayed... but he did so privately, at a comfortable distance away from the others, who didn't trust the scruffy newcomer with the perpetual scowl on his face.

_And for good reason, I guess. If only they knew that I'm the one who got him out of that hellhole... but then, they'd also have to know I'm the one who helped get him __**in**__ there, too.  
_  
The next day the nurses came out and informed everyone that Vash had woken up, to a chorus of cheers (and a sigh of relief from the priest). The ruling was that he'd been suffering severe dehydration from his imprisonment – _they hadn't even been giving him food and water, the bastards_ – and while plants did not depend on these things to survive, the lack of water could cause severe mental and physical damage in independents. Vash, however, was alert and pleasant and yakking away as per usual, but we're going to be running some more tests on him, so please, no visitors for three more days, thank you.

So they all did the only thing they could do: they threw a party.

There was singing and dancing and yelling and copious amounts of alcohol. People were as exuberant as when they'd first received news that the Earth fleet would be coming to rescue the prodigal remnants of humanity. Now that the fleet itself was in danger of being blown to smithereens by Knives, they clung to what hope remained with more desperation than ever.

Confetti and candy-colored streamers freely flew down the corridors, and Nicholas thought of home.

From the very beginning, he'd only had one priority.

_Guide Vash. Protect him._

They were the only orders Knives had ever handed down that he'd honored with all his soul.

Vash was going to be okay. That was the important thing.

As far as he was concerned, his part was over.

* * *

_Good a time as any to clear out, I guess.  
_  
Nicholas returned to his cabin room in the middle of the festivities, bored and not liking the suspicious looks people kept giving him. He'd get some sleep here, then head to December first thing in the morning.

Fine. A great idea.

Except for the part where he couldn't actually get any sleep.

Instead he paced around the room like a caged cat, searching all of the desk drawers for a pack of cigarettes. The need to breathe in the thin, sheet-like vapors of tobacco was unbearable. When his search proved fruitless, he went to his preacher's suit hanging up near the bathroom – they had cleaned and tailored it, not so much as a favor to him but because that was what Civilized People like themselves did; they made sure that shit looked nice – and desperately rifled through its pockets. They were also empty. _What the...  
_  
That's right. He'd been out of smokes well before he returned to the Ark. How could he have forgotten about that? He briefly considered going back down the halls and asking for one, but dismissed it. This bunch clearly didn't like or trust him, and in his current state of mind he was apt to get violent if any of them outright refused to help a guy out.

So he stood, and sort of played with his hands, and he _thought_ – as he always did whenever he was deprived of nicotine. His addiction stemmed from reasons that were more mental than anything else.

For one thing, it helped him deal with the voice.

The awful, mocking inner voice that always filled his head when he had no means of escape.

It first started putting in regular appearances when he was under for his first major surgery at thirteen, a complete restructuring of his body that had been mandated by the Eye of Michael. The procedure had taken seven months, but it was more like seven years by his account. His consciousness lingered in a nightmare landscape that was nightmarish precisely because there was nothing there – nothing at all, except for the excruciating pain. And later, the voice.

It had the manic, childish tenor of a prepubescent boy who thinks it a mighty fine idea to torture cats and set ants on fire with a magnifying glass, for no other reason than that it amuses them. Exactly the kind of people Wolfwood wished would remove themselves from the gene pool... and whose numbers seemed to multiply like maggots on this dustball planet, forcing him to play the role of cosmic janitor.

And it was speaking to him now.

_So things didn't exactly pan out for ya up there, did they, Nicky?  
_  
That was another thing the voice always did: it called him "Nicky." Fuck, did he hate being called that. He was grateful that Vash never did it; he wouldn't know what to do with himself.

_Actually, yeah, because I didn't die, _he replied sardonically. _I'd say it was a resounding success._

_But Legato surviving wasn't in the cards, yeah? You were supposed to rub him out the second you saw his ugly mug._

Wolfwood visibly winced. He hated to be reminded of his failures... which was probably why the voice always brought them up.

_Who cares? _he shot back. _We both got out safe and that's what matters._

_If ya had more than two brain cells to rub together, you **would** care. It's gonna make Vash's job a lot harder down the line. Now he's gonna have to off Legato himself, and –_

_Don't tell me things I already know. Douchebag._

Wolfwood was quickly developing jazz hands. He watched as his fingers flew through the air with nervous energy, striking invisible strings with an accuracy that was anyone's guess. He could practically _taste_ the tobacco at this point. He ground his teeth ruefully.

Legato. He'd been the first major problem – surprise, surprise. Wolfwood had been gambling on the hope that, after seven months of keeping Vash detained, the telepath would be too weakened to do anything about a well-deserved gunshot to the head. But instead he'd had just enough power to turn the gun around on _him_ – and done a damn fine number on him, too – so that the priest wasn't even able to kill him once he finally had Vash out of that hole in the ground. Then _(of course)_ the rest of Knives's band of merry men had showed up and just about finished what Legato had started.

_And don't even get me started on the part where that crazy idiot had to save me from Knives, and we ended up skydiving out of the Ark from three iles above ground. If I wasn't afraid of heights before, I sure as hell am now.  
_  
Well, still, the old dictum held true: it could always be worse.

He could have _actually_ died.

Of course, there was a contingency plan for that, too.

After Wolfwood had touched base with the SEEDS people on the radio – and he'd had a hell of a job ahead of him, too, trying to convince them that the Judas to Vash's Jesus was actually going to try and _rescue_ the savior of mankind; in the end, they had agreed to send a small ship only because they were as desperate as he was – he had gone about writing a letter. It was addressed to Vash. Once he'd finished it, he stuck it in a plain brown envelope and sent it in the care of a network of messengers who kept in regular contact with the SEEDS people. This had cost him a pretty penny and as a result he couldn't afford to eat for three days, but what were you going to do.

The letter was his confession to everything: his appointment as guide and guardian over Vash, his role within the Gung-Ho Guns, even all the Eye of Michael stuff. It even contained that tired opening that seemed to be the _modus operandi_ of all such missives: _Dear Spikey, if you're reading this, I'm dead..._ (He didn't know how he could spice up that line and didn't really want to.) If he was going to die, he wanted to do it with a clear conscience, and he didn't want Vash to learn the truth from someone else.

The letter had also contained instructions. Or rather, a plea.

He had written down the address of the December orphanage, being extremely careful to print the numbers clearly and not smudge the ink.

_I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. On the one hand, if you're reading this, then that means I did a piss-poor job at getting the both of us out safely (because believe it or not, I wasn't exactly planning on dying – even though it was a sacrifice I was willing to make). On the other hand, if I had kept waiting for the "perfect" chance to bust you out, sooner or later the Age of Chaos would have turned into the Age of Knives Shoots Down The Earth Ships And We Are All Royally Screwed –_

_I'm sorry, Vash – I KNOW more people will die if you do this, I KNOW it's just putting another burden on you when you need to be stopping Knives – but those kids were my whole life. You're the only one left who can protect –_

Ironically, Nicholas thought, in the event that he _hadn't_ survived the rescue mission, the orphanage might have stood a much better chance against retribution. After all, there was no pleasure to be had in murdering Nicholas's entire family if Nicholas himself wasn't around to see it. At least, that was what he hoped was Chapel's reasoning.

But there was no use in pondering maybes and what-ifs. The fact of the matter was that he _was_ alive, and the job fell solely to him to make sure that his family was protected. Vash would take on Knives, and he would go to December. All things considered, everything really had gone more or less as planned.

Except for one thing.

_(You can still save yourself, Tongari. Don't waste what I've done for you. Get the hell out of here, and just... live.)_

He'd said all that sentimental crap because he'd been expecting to die and then some... and he supposed that seeing your life flash before your eyes _would_ prompt you to say some exquisitely stupid things.

He'd basically admitted that he was in love with Vash.

And wasn't it just possible (he couldn't seem to steer himself away from the subject now that he was on it) that Vash might feel something for _him_, too? That he could accept him? That –

The voice interjected, raining its demented assurances down on his head. _Sure he loves you, Nicky. And Santa Claus is real, and there's an ile-long line of families just bustin' down the doors for a chance to adopt you.  
_  
_Shut up,_ Wolfwood groused, not sure why he was continuing this ill-fated conversation with himself. Usually, if he just ignored it long enough (or got his hands on some smokes), the voice would go away. Usually. _He expended his own life force to save me. If he really didn't care, he could've just sprouted a couple of those low-level wings and flew himself outta there. He didn't have to go whole hog with the angel arm.  
_  
_Oh yeah? So the scars are just there because he falls down the stairs a lot? Face it: the guy is a born martyr. He'd throw himself into traffic to save a rabid dog if he could.  
_  
Well... he couldn't deny that. But that didn't mean –

_Doesn't mean what? You think every time someone saves your hide it means they want to fuck you? You've got issues, Nicky, my man._

_God damn it, that's not the point and you know it! And anyway, he_ _**touched **__me –_

And there, it was out: the one thing he'd managed to avoid actively thinking about since he'd been brought here. How safe and warm and – well – _loved_ he'd felt, lying there beneath Vash's arm and the canopy of feathers.

This time the voice was silent... but not because it had been defeated. It was because the truth was self-evident. He didn't need anyone to tell him that maybe – more than a maybe, really – Vash had just needed _any_ warm body to hold onto. After all, the guy was more touchy-feely than a teenage girl, and he'd been completely deprived of human contact for the last seven months. Maybe that was why he didn't shy away from Nicholas's touch underneath the sheltering wings. If Wolfwood had pushed even harder, and kissed him (which he hadn't even thought of doing since they had just avoided being turned into barbecue by Knives, and anyway, the silence and the dark had felt so _peaceful _then; he'd had no intention of disturbing it), Vash might have returned it, even if what he felt for the priest was nothing more than the same fondness he reserved for the rest of the human race.

And now Wolfwood felt awful. In a way, he'd been taking advantage of Vash's vulnerability, hadn't he? It seemed that no matter where the priest went, or what he did, he always ended up hurting people.

_Yep_._ You're a regular Grade-A creepo perv, Nicky. Really, if good ol' Aunt Mel could see you now, she'd call it a "blessing in disguise" that you never came back to the orphanage. Who knows what you would have done to the little girls if you'd been allowed to stick around – oops, sorry, I meant the little __**boys **__–_

And that inadvertently brought him back to reality.

The orphanage. No matter his personal feelings – fear, infatuation, whatever – it all came down to that. It all came down to the kids.

Most of them, if not all, would be people the priest had grown up with. Reflecting on the few years that he had lived at Aunt Melanie's orphanage was one of the few memories that gave the priest genuine pleasure. Sure, sometimes Legato would randomly show up in his head while he was daydreaming and emphasize the brutal ordeal with Livio (whom, after everything, he'd still loved like a younger brother), but there were way more good times than bad. For whatever reason, from the first moment he'd stepped through the building's front doors, a shivering and half-starved lump, the littler kids had all flocked to him, calling him "Nico-nii" and quickly appointing him their new babysitter-cum-big-brother. He played basketball with the boys on the cracked asphalt in the backyard, and house and teatime with the girls (the latter he wasn't allowed to do that often since he usually ended up pretending it was a Mafia sit-down that had gone south; the girls joined in with gleeful abandon as teacups were hurled like grenades and dolls were enlisted as soldiers from opposing mob families). Auntie was always quick with hugs and freshly baked cookies, and it hadn't been long before his previous sin-stained existence began to take on the furry outlines of a half-remembered dream: after all, now he was experiencing _this_, a true childhood. She had taught him to read, using the Bible as a primer. He often spoke to her about maybe going into the ministry when he was older, helping out other orphans. Those days were good. They were...

They were peaceful days.

And if he relaxed the iron control he had over himself by even one iota... his friends would never live to see another one.

_But you've already done that, haven't you, Nicky? That little display of treachery up there didn't exactly endear you to Knives, ya know. I bet old man Chapel and Livio are on their way to December right now, and when they get there... well, I probably don't need to paint a picture for ya, do I?  
_  
Jesus! Why hadn't he just _left_ already? What was the point in sitting around mooning over things that had no bearing on his ultimate fate? Even if he hadn't died on the Ark, it was an absolute forgone conclusion that he was going to die defending the orphanage. He had no illusions about being able to defeat those two without using up the rest of his vials. It was all Nicholas could do not to bolt from his room on the spot, go tearing out into the open wilderness like a bat out of hell.

His ruminations were presently broken by the sound of footsteps. Someone had broken off from the party and was walking up to the entrance to his room. Momentarily, he heard a firm knock on the door.

"May I come in?" a voice asked. From the sound of it, the person at the door was Luida. Wolfwood searched his memory banks. She was the stern-faced woman who'd been heading up the SEEDS organization for the last few years. While he hadn't spoken to her directly when issuing his warning to them over the radio that he was going to help Vash escape from the Ark (in fact, he hadn't much spoken to her since he and Vash's first, disastrous visit to the City of Mist), he knew that she must have approved the order to send a ship to pick them up.

"Yeah, sure," Wolfwood replied, a bit nonplussed that anyone would want to come see him. Maybe she was here with a contingent of soldiers to throw him in the brig for turning traitor against his own species. He stood, preparing to defend himself in case it came to that. "I'm decent."

The door did that weird "whoosh" thing that always creeped Nicholas out, and Luida entered. Unlike the rest of the people he'd seen thus far, her cheeks were free of the ruddy influence of alcohol, and her eyes were clear. For a moment she said nothing and just stood there, looking at him.

She didn't ask him why he was holed up in his room, which meant she was either respecting his privacy or was as mistrustful of him as the rest of the people on the ship. Probably some combination of both. Wolfwood's body was all tense energy as he waited for a squad of guys with handcuffs to show up.

"I must apologize for not being able to meet with you sooner," she told him. "I tried to make the debriefing, but the last few days have been – trying. I thought I might make your visit more comfortable. Are you happy with the sleeping arrangements? Would you like anything to eat? Something to drink, perhaps?"

"Um..." Wolfwood hesitated, finally forced his body into something approaching a state of relaxation. No, no handcuffs here. He leaned against the wall, feeling foolish, forgetting even that he was craving nicotine. "No, thank you. Everything's fine."

For another moment she said nothing and looked at him, and silence stretched between them. However, it wasn't an awkward silence. It seemed more like she was measuring her next words.

"So," she said finally. "Your tip-off about the Ark turned out to be correct. My team was half concerned that you were leading us into some kind of trap, but we were... desperate. You have my sincerest thanks for leading us to Vash, Wolfwood – _and_ for saving his life."

"Um. Oh." Wolfwood wasn't much used to any kind of positive affirmation. He shuffled nervously on the balls of his feet, feeling a strange species of pleasure and discomfort.

"Well... you know, no problem. Considering the world would be doomed without him and all."

"Indeed."

"Um... so... was that all you came to tell me?"

Luida blinked at him. "Yes, I suppose it was. Thank you again, Wolfwood."

She bowed her head respectfully, moved as if to leave... but something like curiosity shone in her normally stern expression, and Wolfwood realized there was another, entirely different reason that she had come to him. The priest found himself tensing up again, although he couldn't discern the reason for the sudden change in mood. She stood there for a moment, as if pondering a potential decision, then turned back to him.

"I don't know if you know this, but I was on the rescue ship that came to pick up you and Vash. When Brad and I searched the landing area and found you, I saw that the two of you were in a... curious position." She coughed. "I know this is terribly forward of me, but was there perhaps a – _reason _– for that?"

Wolfwood's breath caught in his throat. Holy shit, was _that_ what this was about? Were the people here mind readers and they just happened to catch the 24-hour "I Love Vash" broadcast playing in his head? That _would_ be his bad luck... he swallowed the instinctive response to tell her to fuck off and mind her own business. After all, she was one of Vash's oldest friends, and he didn't really want to say anything like that to her anyway.

"Oh," he said, and for a moment he thought about denying it, but one look at her face showed him that she wasn't going to let the matter drop. "_That._ Um... no reason," he said, feigning nonchalance. Then, somewhat lamely: "I was cold."

_Yeah, Nicky. So cold that you were practically drooling all over the guy's naked chest._

"Really," she said. Whoa! She was smiling now. Maybe she really _was_ a mind reader. Wolfwood's heart began to thump loudly and sweat shone on his skin, even though there was nothing about the smile to suggest that she had intended to put him in a vulnerable position. She seemed merely amused.

_You always were a shitty liar, Nicky,_ the voice piped up helpfully.

_Will you shut __**up**__?!_

"We ain't a _couple_, if that's what you're tryin' to get at," Wolfwood finally said, which was true, but he said it with perhaps more force than was required. "Anyways, I'm a _priest._ Do I look like I would shack up with a dude?"

Luida was unfazed. "And tell me, was it the Good Book that led you to refashion the Holy Cross into a tool of war?"

"I..." He found himself at a loss for words, his face turning a telltale shade of bone-white; and presently he clutched a tuft of hair on his head, exhaling a defeated sigh. _If only I'd been wearing my shades or something... damn it__. _He sat down heavily on one of the cots bolted into the cabin's wall, cursing himself for the slip.  
_  
_"Hmm," she said suddenly, staring into space, as though contemplating the weather. Then, turning back to him: "Well, personally... I would have been very glad if your answer had been otherwise."

"Um. What?" This conversation was getting very strange very fast.

"Vash is a very lonely person," Luida said, all seriousness again. "For as many people as he's befriended over the years, he's never allowed any of them to get close to him... but I'm sure you already know that. He almost seems to be _happy_ now, at least. Most of his smiles today were genuine. Or at least, they were whenever he was talking about you."

_R... really?_ For once there was no mocking rejoinder in his head. Wolfwood swallowed hard, decided to speak honestly in that moment. "We really aren't together," he said.

"Well, I can tell you that he is certainly fond of you, then. He hasn't stopped asking about your condition since he was brought into the emergency ward. We assured him that you were fine and that we would be bringing you to see him tomorrow."

_A damn shame I won't be there,_ he almost said. But he forced himself to consider what she had brought up previous to that. Well, all right, he could see how someone might extrapolate from those two things – him and Vash being found curled up together like lovers (with Vash half-naked), and Vash's obvious (perhaps annoyingly so) concern for him – that there was something going on there. But still –

"Look, no offense, but why does any of this matter to you?"

Luida was unbothered by the question.

"I speak merely out of concern for an old friend. My concern, actually, was first aroused when I read this letter. The one we were to give to Vash in the event of your – demise." And she pulled it out and showed it to him. He recognized his clumsy but careful print on the dirtied envelope. "Understand, it's not my style to read a letter that was meant for someone else, but as the contents were a matter of global security..."

"No, I get it."

Well. It was good to know that the letter had at least made it there, even if it had no practical value now. But what the hell could he have written in there to make her think there was some kind of burgeoning romance between him and Vash?

"Your letter was very detailed. You told him exactly what you were and everything you'd been working towards this whole time. _Everything_ – except for how you felt about _him_. You were so careful to avoid expressing anything that might sound like the last words of a friend or lover that I actually became suspicious. For someone who's worked with Vash for as long as you have, wouldn't you have conveyed _some_ kind of parting sentiment to him? That, in itself, I found very odd."

Wolfwood stared at her, confused and a little horrified. He couldn't let this continue. Old friend of Vash's or no, Luida was treading way too far into his personal territory. He had carefully closed himself off to all other people, and even on the cusp of his death, he felt the habitual need to keep up appearances.

"Well, you seem so sure that you have your answer, so are we done now?" He roughly rose from the cot and took a step forward, intending to shove her out the door before he said _(gave away) _something he would really regret.

He was surprised when Luida smiled gently at him. "My deepest apologies. I just thought that perhaps you would be willing to humor the curiosity of an old woman. If that makes you uncomfortable, then I will leave."

Wolfwood stared at her with puzzlement… then, with shock as he found his ass lowering itself back onto the cot.

Was this lady some kind of politician or something? She knew just the right tone to maintain, just the right expression to project, in order to get what she wanted from others. Wolfwood found that – contrary to what he believed – he was actually completely at ease with her. He'd certainly underestimated her. More importantly, he knew it would be safe to confide in her.

But first things first.

"All right, lady. But if you really want to continue this conversation, I'm gonna need a smoke first. I haven't had a fix in over forty-eight hours and I don't need a raging headache on top of all this other crap."

"These are non-smoking quarters," Luida replied, but she produced a pack of cigarettes from her robes and handed it to him. Wolfwood pulled one out, lit a match to it, and raised it to his lips, gratefully partaking of (in his mind, anyway) the secular sacrament. He instantly felt a million times better.

"Much obliged."

"So, tell me. Why _didn't_ you make your feelings known?"

She was already speaking as though it was a proven thing that Nicholas was pining for Vash. Whatever. He wasn't even going to argue the point with her anymore.

"Well..." Wolfwood paused, heady from the nicotine surge and his own misgivings. "Okay, look – you said it yourself. That you'd only deliver the letter when I'm dead? What kind of asshole would I be to drop that bomb on him? ...I mean, if that kind of thing even mattered to him."

"I see," Luida said. "Still, in my experience, it is better to leave nothing unsaid when the circumstances are that dire."

"Yeah, well, maybe for normal folks, but when it comes to Vash things're a bit more – complicated." He took another deep drag of the cigarette. Oh _man_, had nothing ever tasted so good. "Come to think of it, Vash's whole damn life has been nothing but a string of complications."

"I'm well aware." She sounded a tiny bit amused.

"I just..." Wolfwood gazed into the cloud of smoke swirling around him. "I don't know. I don't want to do that to him... you know, if he even _does_ care about me that way."

"Are you really so sure that he doesn't?"

"It doesn't matter. I'm certainly not gonna waste my energy trying to find out. Either way, telling him anything would just be a bad idea. I won't put him through any more pain than I already have."

"I see..." Luida obviously didn't agree, but she remained silent on that point. Briskly, she changed the subject.

"You mentioned an orphanage in your letter. Is it safe?"

_Is it sa... oh, shit. _He knew what she was driving at. "Um, yeah. Or at least, it will be. I'm leaving tomorrow to take care of it."

"By yourself? No reinforcements?"

"Look," Wolfwood said with a glare. "You're gonna need to hang on to as many guys as ya got just to keep things running smoothly around here. Truth be told, they'd only get in my way." Luida opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. " – and we _both_ know that Vash has got way bigger fish to fry than to trot off halfway around the world just to protect some orphanage. I'm more than equipped to handle things over there by myself. I mean, I _was_ with the bad guys for all those years; I think I know pretty well how they operate."

She blinked at him a few times. "With the bad guys," she repeated slowly. "Are you concerned that Vash can't return your feelings because you were – as you put it – 'with the bad guys'?"

Oh, God. She really hadn't changed the subject at all. Agitated, he puffed on his cigarette even harder. "What the hell does that matter to anything? We're talking about something completely different here."

"It _matters_," she returned, her eyes cold, "because you have just informed me that you are about to do a very foolish thing. It _matters_, because this distance you insist on keeping around Vash is going to cost you your life." She stared hard at him for long moments. Then her eyes grew sad, and her voice lowered to a near-whisper. "Time and time again, even before our current age of chaos, I have seen Knives's handiwork. And the things he would do to a traitor..." She trailed off, unable to continue.

"Listen," Wolfwood said, trying to reassure her. "My death doesn't really mean a whole hell of a lot in the grand scheme of things. I'm just one murdering asshole, after all. Pardon my language."

"You are _selfish_, is what you are," Luida returned, and although her reprimand was mild compared to how the same might be delivered by a less refined person, Wolfwood still reared back in surprise. "If you die now, you will only be creating another burden for Vash – maybe even an insurmountable one."

For a moment he had no idea what to say to that.

Then: "You don't seem to understand. I've done things in my life that are absolutely unforgiveable. I've killed probably more people than years you've been alive. My hands are eternally stained. Do I really need to paint a freakin' _picture_ for you to understand that Vash isn't gonna be too choked up when I'm gone?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Try me."

"Okay. Fine." He was fuming. What was this lady's problem? And yet it no longer occurred to him at this point to throw her out of his room. He was entirely caught up in their dialogue, as two friends might bicker with each other over politics or religion. "You read the part where I said I worked for assassins, right?"

"Yes. I read everything."

Wolfwood inhaled more of the healing smoke, then released a breath. "Well, there you go. I've killed a lot of people, just because I was ordered to. But let's be completely fair for a moment. For all their bullshit, the Eye of Michael is still a religious institution. The people we assassinated were rapists, slave traders, drug lords. Maybe murdering a bunch of guilty people is something that could be ultimately overlooked. I don't know. But..."

He took a deep breath.

"But I've let a lot of innocent people get killed too. You know, all those months when Vash was out of commission? I was with the group that was going around crippling Gunsmoke's armies. I refused to take any lives directly, but I might as well have. He's not gonna forgive me for that."

A pause. He could still remember that horrible time: wanting desperately to run away, go get Vash, remembering that Legato still had him locked up in a death grip, hating himself for even needing Vash in the first place, for not being strong enough to prevent this, the screaming and the severed limbs and the blood spraying everywhere, _everywhere_ – "I won't _let_ him forgive me."

"Wolfwood," Luida said quietly. "I know that you regret how you have lived your life. But are you really willing to forfeit it like this?"

And he suddenly realized that she was asking this question in a spirit entirely independent of whether or not Vash would be affected by his death. That she was saying his life, in and of itself, was valuable. To behold the naked concern of a stranger was something that almost made the priest weep; but through long force of habit, he was able to stuff the tears.

"I have to go," he said, shakily. "And I have to go alone. I'm the only one who can protect the children at this point. And I may – "_ will – _"die, but that's the price I'm willing to pay. All I ask is that when your ship gets to December you'll make sure everyone is taken aboard."

"I will personally see to it," Luida said gravely. She suddenly looked much older than when she had first entered the room. Her eyes were downcast, the wrinkles on her face more pronounced. Wolfwood felt guilty, knowing he was the cause of her newfound stress. But at least she recognized when she was up against someone more stubborn than herself.

This conversation was over.

She bowed to him. "I've taken up more than enough of your time. I should let you rest now."

"It's okay. Sorry if I've been a jerk." Then something occurred to him. "Uh, hey. I'm sure this goes without saying, but..."

She was quick to assure him. "I will not breathe a word to anyone about anything we have discussed in this room."

She walked to the door, then paused there. Without turning around, she said:

"It know it may do no good, but I must implore you again not to leave on your own. If you needlessly got yourself killed, Vash would be devastated."

"Yeah?" Wolfwood scoffed. "And how do you know that?"

"Because of what I saw. After all, you weren't the only one holding someone that day."

The door slid open. Luida left.

* * *

_I need a cigarette.  
_  
As far as moods went, Wolfwood had directly bypassed Grouchyville and landed squarely in the Vaguely Wrathful Territories. His hands worked furiously, playing an invisible piano concerto, as the SEEDS airlift bore him planetside. In the past the ship had used a gondola with a cable to ferry people on and off the ground, but with the increased need for secrecy, the engineers had taken a novel approach and developed an almost-undetectable platform that would sink down through the winds without being disturbed.

He was wearing his preacher's suit and had donned all his gear, Cross Punisher and ammo included. He hadn't initially intended to take off in the middle of the night, but his discussion with Luida had helped drive home the importance of getting to the orphanage before something horrible could happen. That, and he wasn't so sure that she wasn't going to rat him out to Vash in the morning anyway.

_I need a cigarette_, he thought again. The withdrawal pangs were terrible. Luida hadn't asked for her cigarettes back when she left, which had certainly been a relief. But he'd quickly gone through all of them, tearing through one after another as he sat in the cabin room, willing the clock to run down faster, get to friggin' midnight already.

_Hope they don't charge a cleaning bill_, he thought now as he stepped off the airlift elevator and directly into the cold desert air. _Aw, hell. Dead men don't have debts._ He smirked, even though it wasn't a very funny joke. Shivering slightly, he scanned his new surroundings. Nothing marred the flat, sandy landscape for iles in any direction... with the exception of a makeshift garage building that had been erected (somewhat poorly) for the use of small vehicles. A half-full set of florescent lights burned inside it, keeping the area from being plunged into pitch blackness. He walked inside and quickly found a motorcycle that would suit his purposes. _It's no Angelina, but at least it's transportation.  
_  
He wheeled the bike out of the building and started loading his things onto it, intending to load the Punisher last as that was always a bitch to do. The absence of keys was no problem. He'd been able to hotwire these suckers since he was ten. He felt bad about stealing someone else's property, but it was for a good cause, and anyway, he was sure Luida would find it again once she came to collect the kids and Aunt Melanie.

_You really are the worst priest ever, Nicky._ For once, Wolfwood and the voice were in complete agreement.

Still bearing the Punisher on his shoulders, the priest walked out a ways from the building and looked back in the direction he'd come from, curious as to how the ship presented from here. Surprisingly, it was camouflaged very well: the reflecting plates that had been installed all along its bottom edges served to obliterate all light in the portion of the sky that it occupied, so that it appeared to be only a deeper shade of the darkness that cloaked the entire area. The only thing that might have been conspicuous about the façade was the fact that the plates reflected no stars.

Wolfwood stared straight into the patch of nothingness with unhealthy curiosity. Was _that _what he could hope to expect when he died? If so, it was almost a relief. To see nothing, know nothing,_ feel _nothing – that was far preferable to the hellfire that he knew awaited him once he took a running leap off this mortal coil. He suddenly remembered one of the few things Aunt Melanie had taught him about the stars – that they were just like Gunsmoke's two suns, only they happened to be much farther away – and these days whenever he dreamed about burning up, he always envisioned himself being eternally trapped inside a star.

_Ease up there, buddy. You've got work to do. _Satisfied that he had fulfilled his Morbid Thought quota for the day, the priest's gaze returned to the ground and –

– wait, was that _Vash_ stepping off of the elevator now?

_Damn it! She __**told **__him!  
_  
But then he saw that Vash's walk lacked its usual purposeful stride, so it was more likely that the gunslinger had gone to his cabin room, hadn't found him, and had decided to go looking for him.

Wolfwood was strangely touched... but even as his heart lifted, his spirits fell. Saying goodbye to Vash was going to be hard, impossibly hard. Getting him to leavewithout asking too many questions (or, God forbid, trying to stop him)would be an outright miracle. He mentally prepared himself to be even more of a dismissive asshole than usual. When it came to that thick-headed needle-noggin, you sometimes just had to apply that extra measure of brute force.

As Vash drew closer, Wolfwood could see clearly that he was dressed in jeans and a thin shirt, which couldn't have been much help against the chilly desert air. In all other respects, however, he looked exceptionally well cared for: his eyes were alert and his cheeks had resumed a healthy pinkish hue, indicating he'd gotten a few square meals in him; and his hair was wet and scruffy, which the priest could only presume was from taking a well-deserved (and in his opinion, well-needed) hot shower. Of course, this picture of health was somewhat contradicted by (and here Wolfwood had to choke down the lump of guilt that came tunneling up his throat) the deeper shades of black that streaked his strawberry-blond hair.

Wolfwood also noticed that he was wringing his hands... meaning they'd already constructed a new arm for him. Well, good. He was going to need it. Wolfwood turned away without saying a word. Even though it was still as dark as Satan's asshole out here, his hand slipped into his pocket, seeking the safety of his shades. Without missing a beat, he smoothly slipped them on.

That was about the only "smooth" thing Wolfwood accomplished for the rest of the night.

"Wolfwood!" When Wolfwood didn't respond, Vash marched up to him and grabbed him by the shoulder. Wolfwood flinched at the sensation – remembering how that same hand had brushed against his skin in the dark and quiet world beneath the angel wings – but quickly righted himself. Next moment, Vash was turning the priest around to face him, using more strength than Wolfwood would've thought him capable of at this point. He managed to force out between clenched teeth:

"What the _hell_ are you doing out of bed, Tongari?"

"Because..." For a split-second Vash faltered, and his eyes – previously accusatory – shifted from Wolfwood's face to look at a point somewhere beyond the priest's sight, before returning to him. "I was just worried. They wouldn't let me see you."

Wolfwood's heart gave a sickeningly feminine flutter. He hadn't missed that expression on Vash's face, nor the special emphasis he had placed on the words _just worried_. But it was possible – actually, quite probable – that it had just been his imagination. Saints didn't exactly go in for devils... and Vash didn't even know the half of his crimes yet.

_Oh Nicky, dove, you love-sick_ – But before the voice could lecture him once more, Vash was saying to him:

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I got stuff to take care of," Nicholas replied, and he was appalled at how thin and unconvincing his own voice sounded to him.

"What stuff?"

"Just... some stuff. Don't worry about it."

_Oh, yeah. You're __**really **__knockin' it out of the ballpark, Nicky.  
_  
"No, I don't know," Vash said, rising to the weakness in his retort. His tone was one of sudden, maddening patience. "_Just stuff_ is not a sufficient answer. Could you be a little more specific?"

Wolfwood drove his nails into his palms as the overwhelming urge to throttle the gunslinger washed over him. _Damn hypocrite!_ How many times had Vash run out on his friends on a equally weak pretense (when he bothered to give a reason at all)? "I just answered your question," Wolfwood grunted, wrenching himself out of Vash's grasp. He immediately strode over – or slunk, more like – to the motorcycle and began lashing the Punisher to the side car. "For God's sake, you didn't sleep at all for the last seven months. The last thing you need is to be out of bed."

"I can't be worried about you?"

"Sure, you can worry about me. _In bed._ And anyway, I'm coming right back."

It hurt to tell him lies like this. It really did.

"You still haven't told me where you're going."

Wolfwood's fingers visibly shook as he attempted to wrench the cables into a snug position around the Punisher's base. Oh _God_, did he ever need a cigarette... "Look, is it really important? In case you haven't noticed, it's sort of imperative that you heal as quickly as possible so you can take on your brother. From what I hear, he's been stealing the plants from major cities and he's gonna try to take down the Earth fleet while they're still in space. Don't worry yourself about things that don't matter."

"But this _does_ matter," Vash insisted, as if he hadn't even heard what the priest had just said about Knives. "It's like you said, Nick – we haven't seen each other in seven months. How can you be taking off _now_, when we finally have a chance to talk? When I finally have a chance to thank you for saving my life?"

He seemed genuinely hurt. Wolfwood foundered. "I'm just..." Shit. Why hadn't he spent some of that free time in the room thinking up a cover story? "I'm not _leaving_, leaving. I'm just going into town to get some cigarettes. I can't wait 'til morning for a fix and everybody else is sleeping."

_Pretty good, Nicky, _the voice said thoughtfully_. And half-true. But you should have just told him that from the beginning, and you choked on the delivery. He's not gonna believe you.  
_  
And, as if on cue: "I don't believe you," Vash said.

"I'm telling you, it's the truth! Why would I lie?!"

"I don't know, but I can just tell you're not being honest!"

"Fine, don't believe me then! But I'm still going!" Wolfwood furiously secured the remaining ties on the Punisher.

"Wolfwood, wait!"

"_What_, Tongari?" Wolfwood said, pushing off from the ground and turning to face Vash with a glare.

His glare was countered by a hard, appraising look. Wolfwood was very glad to be wearing the shades at that moment. He wouldn't trust himself not to wilt beneath its scrutiny, because the voice was right about one thing: he _was _a pretty bad liar. Then, finally, Vash uttered in a stony voice: "Explain."

"Explain what?" Wolfwood said, although he knew very well.

Vash knew it too. "Don't be cute," he said, in a tone very much unlike the one he used on a day-to-day basis. Wolfwood was disturbed to hear in it all the cynicism and world-weariness one would typically associate with a wanted criminal. "We agreed that you were finally going to come clean with me, that you weren't going to keep secrets anymore. So that's what you're going to do. Right now."

"Sorry, but I gotta take a rain check."

"Fine," Vash said. And Wolfwood cried out in alarm as wings suddenly sprouted from his right arm. "Then I am going to restrain you, and you and I can both just sit here all night until you decide to give me some answers."

_**You bast – ! **_"I have to go to December! He's got my kids!" Wolfwood almost screamed the words, desperate to keep Vash from using any of his remaining power. Vash stared back at him, the wings retracting into his arm as quickly as they'd appeared, his eyes eating up his face in pure shock.

"_What?!_ Knives has them?"

" – Yes!" Wolfwood drew a shuddering breath, trying to stay calm. Why was this happening to him? Why couldn't the nurses have just done their fucking jobs and put more tranqs in Vash? He could have been iles away by now! "I... I'm not really a priest. Okay? I'm an assassin. What I've always told you about the orphanage is true, and I really _do_ support the kids there, but Knives..." His face darkened as he remembered how it had all gone down. "A few years ago I was given the chance to kill him, and I took it. But I – I screwed up. So then I had to join his parade of freaks. Specifically, to make sure that none of them killed you, and to guide you to him. It was either that or be forced to watch as all the people I ever loved got cut into ribbons." And then, even in the middle of his panic, he found himself suddenly possessed of a grim humor. "I was even paid for my trouble. I've got a coin and everything." Barking laughter, he removed from his pocket the large coin that Legato had issued to him and dropped it into Vash's hand.

There. In less than a minute's time, the truth was out. Vash stared at the coin in his palm, unable to make a sound. Then:

"Wolfwood. I'm going back up. I'm getting my gun and my coat. Do not move from this spot until I get back." Speaking with a robotic urgency, Vash pocketed the coin and turned away.

Wolfwood stared after his retreating back, nonplussed. _**What? **__I drop that kind of bombshell on him and he's already over it?_

Of course... he's known about it forever now. I've dropped enough hints over the last few years. He just needed me to come right out and say it. And even I can tell that he's not over it, not really. He's actually pretty pissed off.

Wolfwood called after him. "Just forget it! You're in no condition to fight. I'd have to wait at least two or three days for you to come around. I need to go to December _now_."

"Then I'll just have to do the best I can in the shape I'm in. Just promise me that you'll wait here for me, Wolfwood. _Please_."

"Spikey, I can't risk your life! Even if I gave it just one more day, to give your health a chance to catch up, that's still cutting it too close. Livio and Master C know I'm a traitor, they want to punish me, and the best way they know how is to hurt my family. I mean, you saw it for yourself. Chapel is one mean sonuvabitch, and he's got that crybaby wrapped around his finger. They're probably on their way to the orphanage right now."

When Vash saw that his command was useless, he turned and marched right up to the priest, and _oh yes_, he was mad: his normally placid green eyes had become hard emeralds. "I am _not_ going to just stand by knowing that kids are going to be butchered!"

"Oh, yeah? How about every single kid on the fucking _planet_?" Wolfwood shot back. "Because, you know, there's a lot more at stake right now than just one orphanage! Why don't you focus on _your_ problems and I'll focus on mine!" Behind his shades his eyes blazed, a fierce counterpoint to the coldness in Vash's own. "And none of my kids are getting butchered. They'll have to rip every limb from my body before they can lay a single finger on them."

"Why are you being so stubborn? Why won't you let me help you? I _can_ help you. If we work together, we could stop them."

Things were spiraling wildly out of his control. It wasn't supposed to go down like this. Nothing was going according to plan... just as things _never_ went according to plan when Vash was involved. Frustration threatened to consume the priest whole. Before he could stop himself, he hissed, "Yeah, sure! And just avoid dealing with the _real_ problem, like you always do! Just avoid dealing with Knives! Like you did a hundred and fifty years ago! And _now look where we all are_!"

Vash drew back sharply, stunned into silence. He lowered his head, eyes brimming with tears.

"Oh..." It was then that Wolfwood became suddenly, acutely aware of the power that he had. Whatever Vash felt towards him – whether it was friendship or infatuation or some strange, grudging species of respect – he still had the power to hurt Vash. To _wound_ him... and wasn't that just like a Gung-Ho Gun? At that moment the priest wanted nothing more than for God's hand to come barreling out of the cloudless black sky and smash him like an insect. "Oh, Vash. I'm sorry. I didn't – I didn't mean – "

Vash's voice was small, but it still stopped him as soundly as if he'd run into a brick wall.

"You're right..."

_Asshole. I'm an asshole._ "I didn't mean it, Vash. Really. Just pretend I never – "

"No, you're right." Vash wearily raised a hand to his wet bangs. "After all, you'd never be in this position if I'd just put a bullet in Knives's head back then, right? There wouldn't be any need for things like assassins and violence and war. For every person who dies from this horrible environment, it's... it's the same as if I killed them myself."

"Will you just get out of here with that bullshit?!" Wolfwood roared. "You are _not_ like Knives. And you never will be! You can't take responsibility for every single thing that happens on this planet. You may be an angel – but you're not _God_, damn it!"

Vash lifted his head to look at him, an expression of scrutiny and shock on his face, as though the person he were looking at was no longer Wolfwood but someone else. Wolfwood, for his part, tried not to look as if he had accidentally revealed some great inner working of his mind. _No, no, he can't know that an angel is __**exactly **__what I think he is..._ Wolfwood straightened up and took a deep breath. He continued in a calmer voice:

"Look, Vash. I'm a certified shithead, I know that. No matter what my circumstances may have been growing up, there wasn't any excuse for me to live my life the way I did. My choices were my own. For that, you share no blame. None at all."

"No." In spite of his tears, Vash's voice was fierce. "You're not evil, Wolfwood. Not by a long shot."

Looking at him, in those trusting green eyes, Wolfwood could almost believe it. Then the familiar knot of self-loathing emerged, twisting his guts into a tangled pile of spaghetti. "Wanna bet? When Livio and Chapel went around gutting the planet's armies, I was there with them. I could have tried to stop them, but I didn't. Those innocent men's blood will always be on my hands."

Vash faltered, but it was a brief thing. "Wolfwood, there... there was nothing you could have done. Those two would have just killed you if you'd resisted."

"Yeah, probably. What, that makes it right somehow?"

For a moment Vash looked incredibly frustrated. Then: "So you _do_ admit it. You admit that you can't take both of them on by yourself."

"I... what? _No._" Damn, leave it to Vash to exploit a slip like that – "This isn't a game, Vash! I know these bastards inside and out. I'm telling you, I can beat them! I don't need your help!"

"I believe you can beat them," Vash replied, his tone solemn and unassailable. "But I don't believe that you can beat them and _live_."

As usual, his guess was closer to the truth than the priest would have liked. "Listen, I was Gung-Ho Gun No. 5," Wolfwood explained impatiently. "Nicholas the Punisher. That puts me in the inner circle of the Gung-Ho Guns. _Don't_ underestimate what I can do, Spikey."

The sternness faded from Vash's face then. He looked at Nicholas sadly. "Wolfwood, tell me. How long _were_ you a Gung-Ho Gun?"

Wolfwood sighed and placed a hand to his forehead.

"From the first day I met you, Tongari. And even before that... I was kidnapped by a religious cult. A cult that worshipped plants. They were the ones who raised me to be an assassin, and it was through them that I found out about Knives. They did a lot of experiments on me. I never stood a chance of leading a normal life." Wolfwood didn't know why he was telling Vash all this. It was like he was in the final stretch of a race, moving towards some inevitable finish line, and all he had to do to win was to keep confessing all of his sins. To make himself hated, feared, and ultimately abandoned.

"...Experiments?" Vash's face was ashen, his voice a near-whisper.

"Yeah. Injected me with plant serum, did a lot of surgical restructuring. The side effect was that my body aged way faster than normal. In a few more years – if I live that long – I'll probably be a grizzled old man."

Vash looked as though he were going to be sick. Wolfwood tried to push down the irrational hurt that rose in his gorge. "And – and that vial you took yesterday?"

"Yeah. Something else they gave me. Thanks to the plant serum, my body was designed to naturally heal itself from injuries... but if I was ever in a _real_ bind – something that my body couldn't bounce back from – I was supposed to take one of those things. Of course, doing so shortens my lifespan even more, but I'm way past caring about that."

And now he was going to ask it: the one question that Wolfwood never, ever wanted to answer. In his mind, he heard Vash asking it even before the words began to form on his lips. The finish line was just ahead of him, in plain sight –

_– Wolfwood, how old are you –  
_  
"Wolfwood... how old are you?"

Wolfwood hesitated. An eternity passed.

"I don't know. Maybe sixteen, maybe eighteen. Definitely not over twenty."

The silence was deafening.

_There. That __**has**__ to be the last straw. There's no way he would go after Frankenstein's monster. Now he can go do what he's supposed to do. He can go save the wor –  
_  
Knowing all that did nothing to prevent the black cry of despair that came tearing through his soul. He was beyond the point of no return, cast into an unholy wilderness where deception would no longer serve him, because now he knew for certain that Vash didn't – _couldn't_ – love him. His only companion from now on would be that awful, mocking, perpetually gleeful voice, and it would be _its_ words that he heard when he was at last removed from this life, cut down in a hail of bullets or choking on his own vomit as the final vial dissolved his internal organs, laughing at his wasted life and the eternity of suffering he could expect to face on the other side.

Wolfwood's face betrayed not a hint of these internal lamentations.

The silence stretched on. The priest finally broke it.

"So now you know. Not only am I an asshole and a murderer, I'm a freak of nature. And now... and now I'm going." He turned away from Vash and started walking, keeping his voice steady through immense force of will. "Seeya."

He walked away with the knowledge that he would not, in fact, ever see Vash again.

He was extremely unprepared for what happened next.

Hands reached out and seized him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides and preventing him from taking another step. His breath hitching in his throat, he looked down and saw a jean-clad leg in step with his own, trying to bodily block his path. A medley of competing emotions – shock, horror, gratitude and a quantum of hope – played across Wolfwood's features, before they finally disintegrated in the white-hot fires of rage.

"What do you think you're _doing_?!"

Vash's response sounded equally pissed, surprising him.

"What does it look like?! I'm trying to stop you!"

"Let go of me, you moron!" Once again Vash's strength was a source of astonishment. He was able to keep the priest pinned for a good ten seconds before he finally pistoned forward with his arms and legs, trying to create grooves in the sand that he could sink his feet into for purchase.

"No! I'm not letting you do this! It's suicide!"

"And it's not your choice to make!"

"_Damn_ it, Nick – don't you understand that I _care_ about you? No matter who you are or what you've done?"

Wolfwood's resistance weakened by a fraction upon hearing this... but then his eyes hardened, and with a snarl he resumed his ponderous trek towards the bike, Vash insistently hanging off of him like a sand crab, yelling.

This whole thing was absurd. _Beyond_ absurd. All the idiot was accomplishing was slowing him down from doing what needed to be done. At the same time there was pressure, an intolerable pressure building in his skull; and the priest summoned every ounce of strength that remained available to him, willing himself to just go _forward_.

As the sweat sluiced down his forehead, he looked down at his feet. They hadn't budged an inch.

Okay, then. Playtime was over. Wolfwood mentally switched gears. Brutal rage replaced frustrated calculating. His idea was very simple. He was going to turn around, give Vash a shiner so big he would be seeing cross-eyed for a week, and then be on his merry way. If the moron _still_ didn't back off, he was going to –

Who was he kidding? He could never hurt Vash.

With that realization, he began to cry.

It was slow going at first, and he stubbornly resisted the tears using the same tactics the Eye had taught him during battle patrols: he bit his lip, took deep breaths, and waited for the storm to pass. This guaranteed him some measure of success; but then it all came utterly undone when the strength suddenly fled his legs, and he fell heavily to his knees. Vash's catlike reflexes kicked in and he moved to cushion him – but it was too late, his shades had gone flying off of his nose, and he could see his own miserable, tear-streaked reflection in them.

He fought to reassert control, even though his body felt like it was going to fly apart into a thousand pieces, scattering to all four corners of the desert. With his defenses thus stripped and his soul laid bare, he groped blindly for a childish, simple mantra that could sustain him: _No no no no no no no NO NO NO –_

He reached with grasping fingers for his sunglasses. Yes, they were his only hope now. He didn't even need to put them on... if he could just _touch_ them, that would be enough...

And then Vash's hand came out and closed over his, gently tugging it away, and that was pretty much the end of that.

Nicholas broke.

His pain and grief and regret ran soul-deep. It was an ugly thing to behold. He was howling unintelligible things at the top of his lungs, bawling like a child – the child he hadn't been allowed to be after they had come and taken him from his home, made him the _Punisher_ – and the tears soon soaked his shirt through. He cried until his throat felt like raw sandpaper. He cried until he was sure he was going to throw up. He cried, and cried, and cried –

His hands flew to his temples to ward off the sudden migraine that had accosted them; and it was then that he realized that his back was leaning against Vash's chest, with the gunslinger's cheek perched almost next to his own. Left to his own devices, he would have fallen over in the sand, but Vash was supporting him, holding him as if he weighed no more than a baby toma. Nicholas furiously tried to stifle further exclamations of agony, but the resulting pain and pressure was as bad as if he'd tried to choke down all of his vials at once.

In the brief interlude of silence, Vash spoke. His tones were low and soothing, and Wolfwood found himself growing calmer by slow degrees.

"Wolfwood, when I thought you were going to die, I made a promise to myself. Do you know what it was? I promised that I would never let anything or anyone hurt you again. I realize that it was probably a very stupid thing to do, and I don't know if I can keep it. Mostly because you're a stubborn idiot who insists on dying for no good reason."

Wolfwood sensed a soft motion then – fingers approaching his cheek – and he would have flinched away, except that he no longer had the strength or will. For a moment they hesitated, then brushed against his skin, feather-like. With equal parts softness and hesitation, they began to wipe away each of the tears that clung to his cheek. Wolfwood, unable to bring himself to look at Vash while this was happening, closed his eyes.

"But I'm here with you now. And I'm telling you: it's okay to release it. To let go of all the pain you've been shouldering all these years. Because no matter what, I will be here to help you carry it. And that is a promise I _can_ keep."

As he said this, Vash continued to wipe all of the tears away. If Wolfwood had noticed that Vash was accomplishing this with his artificial hand – and he didn't – it wouldn't have mattered one whit to him. Vash was Vash, and for him to be giving _any_ part of himself to him like this was –

"Please stop," he managed to gasp. "I don't deserve this, _any_ of this..."

"Why? Who says you're not worthy of being helped like any other person? You always try to do things by yourself, Wolfwood. That's what I don't understand about you." He sighed, like an exasperated parent, and Wolfwood trembled as his warm breath fell on his cheek. "I knew for a long time that something was wrong. But you never opened up to me... it made me angry. Angry enough to want to beat you up, sometimes." Then he frowned. Wolfwood couldn't see it, but he could just _feel_ it whenever Vash exhibited certain emotions. "But at the same time, I never pushed for an answer... because I was afraid of what you might tell me. Because I was afraid it would destroy what we had, or that you would leave me. I just let you go on suffering. Because it was _comfortable_ for me. I'm – disgusting."

_**You're **__disgusting... when I've pulled a gun on your back God knows how many times and every single time you chose to forgive? When __**I'm **__half the reason you were tortured for the last seven months?! _But he found that he couldn't vocalize such complex thoughts. Instead, all he could get out was: "But why – why would you _ever_ – care if I – if I left you?"

Vash sighed again.

"Because you just have a way of getting to me, that's all. Maybe it's _because_ you were so full of secrets; I didn't particularly feel the need to keep my guard up around you, or to push you away if you got too close, since it didn't seem likely that you ever _would_ get that close. And yet, as you kept getting drawn deeper and deeper into my conflicts... that was _exactly_ what happened. All the battles, the traveling, the arguments, the bars – even the stupid little fights like who was going to get the bed and who would sleep on the floor in the hotel room... over time, we just kept showing more and more sides to each other."

Vash gently turned Wolfwood around to face him, placed his hands on the priest's shoulders. When Wolfwood wouldn't lift his head to meet his gaze, the gunslinger's fingers came under his chin and tipped it up. Wolfwood studied his face to see if there was any tightness there, any secret hint of Vash's loathing for him now that he knew what a lying murdering piece of shit he was.

But there was none.

Instead, Vash was preoccupied with something else entirely. His voice was deceptively quiet, but Wolfwood could tell – even without seeing the minute trembling of his jaw and the overbrightness of his eyes – that he was fighting to keep some great emotion in check.

"In all the years I've lived, no one has ever seen this many sides of me. All the dark and ugly sides that I've tried so hard to keep hidden away. Most people see one or two of them, and they either run from me or want me dead. Meryl was the first in a long time to get close, but she – got scared. And so, I've always been alone."

And now Wolfwood could see the need shining plainly on his face.

"But you – from the very beginning, you _saw._ You saw everything. You saw my fake smiles for what they were. You saw my scars. You knew about my unholy, monstrous powers. You knew I was responsible for July. You knew I couldn't make myself pull the trigger to end someone else's life, even if it meant that more people, and more _deserving_ people, might live. And you knew how, in the end, I couldn't even stick to any of my principles anyway... how I kept betraying Rem, over and over and over – watching people die, never being able to save them."

Fresh tears leaked from his eyes. "And you still cared about me. You were still my friend. And that meant... so much to me..." Soon the gunslinger was shaking all over, as the tears became steadily streaming rivulets.

"I kept thinking that maybe you would get so disgusted with me that you would just leave, that whatever motives you had for following me just weren't worth the aggravation. But that never happened. Instead, you kept trying to teach me... teach me that there were solutions to my problems other than the narrow, lonely path I've walked all my life. You tried to draw me out of my pain with those silly rubber bands and the drinks and all your crude comments. And through it all, you kept acting like you were somehow lower than me. After a while I realized that it wasn't an act, that you really _did_ feel that way about yourself. And – and I thought – if there is such a thing as sin, then surely that must be an unforgivable one. Because..."

He took Wolfwood's hand and placed it on his chest, directly over his heart.

"Wolfwood, you're my guide, my guardian, my teacher. You've done what no one else could do for me: you've _changed_ me. You've changed me for the better." And then he did something through the tears that was quite amazing: he smiled. "And you've changed me for good."

For a full minute Wolfwood was speechless, taking this in. Even his quiet sobs had completely ceased.

"I... never knew." And then he said again, his mouth dry even as his eyes began to water once more, "I never knew... that you felt that way."

Vash nodded at him, and because he was still crying, the priest reached out with his arms instinctively – unthinking, uncaring – and held him. Vash wrapped his arms around him in return, burying his head in his shoulder. Wolfwood now felt something like strength returning to him, and the pain in his head had almost completely subsided. He felt at that moment that there was some great caged thing in him that needed to be set free, something that needed to be said; and most importantly, that he had to say it now, or forever hold his peace.

"Spikey – Vash – I – " His thoughts were still piecing and unpiecing together, however: like an unsolved puzzle being endlessly rearranged and taken apart. "I can't imagine my life without you. No, I can't imagine _any_ life without you. When I thought that Knives was gonna kill you, or you were gonna burn yourself out on your own power, just to save my worthless ass, I – couldn't _bear_ it. The world needs you... even if Knives had never been born it would need you, because you're just that pure and noble and _good_. And..." His voice broke off into a choked gasp. Nothing he said seemed to be making any sense at all, so he said the only thing that really seemed to matter at that moment, the thing he'd set out to say without knowing it. "I need you. God, I _need_ you. I want... to have a future with you. Even if you don't want or need a devil like me."

For long moments Vash said nothing, and Wolfwood was afraid. He had become so vulnerable in such a short time, his foundations crumbled almost to nothing, and Vash held the remains in his hands. He could crush or rebuild them with a word. The priest waited for an answer in silent agony.

Finally Vash began to murmur something into Wolfwood's ear. It took him a moment to recognize that it was a recital from an ancient book; but the way Vash spoke the words made it seem as though they had sprung, fresh and fully-formed, from his heart. "Many waters cannot quench love. Neither can the floods drown it. If a man were to give all his wealth for love, it would be utterly scorned."

At first Wolfwood didn't understand. Then panic started boiling inside him. He tried to make his voice sound light. "You know that I'm not a real priest now, Vash. There's no use quoting scripture around me." Could Vash really be saying...

"It was Rem's favorite. I said it because it's beautiful." He pushed himself off of Wolfwood's shoulders and looked him full in the face, smiling. "And because it's true."

Wolfwood was almost purposefully bewildered. "What... what part of it is true?"

"You really don't know?" Vash said, and it was only when his blond bangs were tickling Wolfwood's nose that the priest realized that he had been bringing his face closer and closer to his. Most people (and as far as he knew he was one of them) were not attractive when they cried, but the remaining water in Vash's had rendered them into soft viridian pools, in which tiny reflections swam. Wolfwood stared, entranced. He'd heard enough stupid clichés about people drowning in their beloved's eyes, but goddamn if that wasn't what was happening to him right now.

"Yeah... at least... I think so. I think I do." And Wolfwood had his answer, but it no longer held the earth-shattering import he thought it would. Instead, it just seemed like the most natural thing in the world to him: as natural as getting lost in Vash's eyes.

"You really should have more faith in yourself," Vash chuckled, but Wolfwood barely heard this, because now he was distracted by the beauty mark beneath Vash's left eye – _I never noticed how it brings out that color_ – and then Vash brushed his lips against his, and that got his attention real fast. Before the priest could fully register what was happening, Vash's hand had snaked into his hair, and his lips fully closed the very short distance to his own. Stunned, Wolfwood tumbled backwards and onto the ground.

A moment later, and Vash was on _top_ of him.

The first thing that immediately caught Wolfwood's attention – apart from the fact that they were now in the missionary position, and _oh my isn't that funny-haha, a priest in the missionary position _– was the wall of heat that came baking off of the gunslinger's body, one born of passion rather than fever. The next thing was that Vash must really like washing with lemon-scented soap, because there sure was a lot of that. Lingering just beneath it, however, was a much earthier and humbler scent that Wolfwood found comforting, like an enormous quilt that one huddles underneath for warmth on cold nights.

Also, Vash was still kissing him.

His lips weren't the softest – not that he had expected them to be when you lived most of your life outdoors, on a planet constantly besieged by desert winds – but they were moist, and the _way_ that they moved upon Wolfwood's own was one of supreme interest. He was kissing him with inexpressible tenderness, his breath beating on him warmly while his thumb drew long, deliberate strokes along his cheek and neck. For a moment Wolfwood remembered all those cigarettes he'd smoked and felt a stupid little twinge of self-consciousness about how he must taste, but that was banished when he felt something warm enter his mouth and learned to a stunning degree just how little Vash shared his concern.

Wolfwood thought he would explode.

At length Vash broke off the kiss and stared down hard at the priest, like a man who wonders whether or not he is in a dream. Wolfwood, who by now had completely surrendered himself to the same dreamy feeling he'd felt when Vash had saved his life on the Ark, returned his gaze serenely. Somewhere far away in the back of his brain he understood that Vash was every bit as disciplined as he was, and that right now he was exercising every ounce of said discipline not to take him right there. Presently Vash's hand left his face, glided down to the rest of him. His fingers traveled idly along the swath of exposed skin beneath his neckline, then began tracing the wiry contours of the priest's body, as though he were trying to create a tactile memory, one that he could eternally revisit in his mind.

Wolfwood wanted so badly to raise his arms – to reciprocate the wonderful physical sensations that were creeping over him in response to the gunslinger's touch – but Vash was holding down his right arm, and his other arm was about as responsive as clay. All he could do was groan as Vash's talented (_too_ talented) fingers explored every inch of flesh beneath the jacket of his suit, alternating between deep massages and light brushes of his fingertips. A moan from Vash confirmed to him that he was the kind of lover who derived pleasure from the simple act of giving it. Then all coherent thought was obliterated as Vash covered his mouth with his own once more.

Inch by agonizing inch, Vash's self-control broke down. His breathing was ragged, and his eyes had taken on a glassy appearance. The movements of his hands had graduated from gentle exploration to urgent pawing. He began unfastening the buttons on Wolfwood's jacket, his fingers working with surprising nimbleness. When that was done, he seized Wolfwood's belt buckle –

Wolfwood's arm sprang to life then. He grabbed Vash's hand.

"No."

At first Vash's face registered no recognition of his voice at all. His fingers froze around the loop of leather, however, and after an interminably long time the glazed look departed from his eyes, and he was looking down at him with sadness, and guilt, and all the other things that Wolfwood hated to see in his face. He closed his eyes and exhaled a heavy, apologetic sigh, replacing the belt and doing up the buttons with practiced ease. Then he leaned back on his haunches, wrapping his arms around himself. The atmosphere of shared passion still hung on the air, but it was considerably muted.

A long silence resumed, occupied only by the sounds of both's harsh breathing.

"Don't tell me you're blaming yourself for something stupid, now," Wolfwood murmured at last, lying on the ground as he waited for his breathing to return to normal, for the blood to stop pounding its insistent drumbeat in his head. "'Cause I'll have to beat you up if that's the case."

"I'm sorry." Vash smiled at him, but it was a stupid fake smile, and Wolfwood knew it. "I shouldn't have forced that on you. I can always be selfish later."

"It's not that I didn't want it," Wolfwood demurred. "Actually... just the opposite." And saying so made him realize how much he was already regretting his decision. How much he'd _wanted_ to retreat into a world where there was no pain, no horror: nothing but Vash kissing him, or breathing on him, or touching him...

He brought a hand up to his cheek to try and pinch himself back to reality, then recoiled at the heat radiating from it. Had he been _blushing_ this whole time? Just like a _chick_ in a dime-store _romance _novel?

"Don't worry," Vash said, and now his smile was real. "You're really cute when you do that."

"Guess I'll take your word for it." Wolfwood tried to sound matter-of-fact, but his heart skipped more than one beat at that. For the first time in his life, he reckoned, he actually _felt_ his age. "Um. I don't think I can get up."

"I'm sorry," Vash said, leaning back over him, his eyes shining with concern. Wolfwood was alarmed to find that his engines were beginning to rev once more in response to his renewed closeness. "I hurt you, didn't I?"

"No. Stop apologizing, you dummy. It's just... all this..." He held out his hand. "We don't really have the time, that's all."

"I understand," Vash said, and there was an entirely different look in his eyes now. Like Wolfwood, Vash knew how to separate business from pleasure. Without another word, he helped Wolfwood to his feet. At first the priest staggered, but he was able to lean on Vash until the dizziness receded and he was at rights again. He then went to work shaking the dust from his hair and clothes. His cheeks were still flushed, but he was no longer chagrined about that. "Damn, why'd ya have to get me all hot and bothered like that..."

At first Vash looked like he was going to apologize again, but Wolfwood glared at him, and instead he said, somewhat fiendishly: "Well, it's kind of hard to resist you when you're just lying there on the ground like that. It's like coming across a box of donuts in the middle of the desert with a sign that says 'PLEASE EAT ME'!" He thought for a moment, then added: "And all the donuts are chocolate glaze with sprinkles – my favorite!"

"Argh, your jokes are still as lame as always," Wolfwood groaned, although he knew that being compared to a chocolate glazed donut with sprinkles was high flattery coming from Vash. Then he found himself smiling a little. It was surprising how easily a smile came to his face now, when less than an hour ago he'd given himself up for dead, and his soul for lost. Although worries for the future still weighed heavily on his mind, a much more substantial weight had been eternally lifted from his shoulders. "It's funny, though. Here you are quoting the Bible at me, and not even a minute later you're trying to jump me – "

"It's not like I _planned_ that! And anyway, it was a beautiful passage." Vash's eyes grew sparkly. "Hey, we should have the priest recite it at our wedding!"

"You idiot, when the heck are we going to have a chance to get married? As if I'd even marry an irresponsible jerk like you."

"But _you're_ a priest! You could marry us anytime you wanted!" Vash looked at him, with fake-but-maybe-not-so-fake hopefulness. "You could even do it right now!"

"Priests don't even marry guys in the first place!"

"Well you're not a _normal_ priest," Vash said with a pout.

"Okay, fine, Tongari," Wolfwood said, rolling his eyes. "If we get back from this and somehow we're still alive, I'll marry us."

But something about the idea had put him out of sorts. A hint of the old doubts and insecurities – the belief that someone like him could never escape damnation, in this life or the next – touched his dark eyes.

"Vash," he said, his voice quiet. "Will you really... stay by me? Until my time comes?"

Vash's response was instant.

"Yeah," he said, wrapping the priest in a tight hug. "You're mine for good."

That was all the assurance Wolfwood needed. He smiled gratefully at the gunslinger, who carefully disentangled himself so as not to take them on another trip down Heavy Petting Lane. Then he fixed him with an appraising stare.

"Are you sure you're up for this? I meant it when I said you were in no condition to fight, ya know."

"I'll just have to heal on the drive up, I guess. After all – " Vash tipped him a wink – "I won't be the one driving."

"Damn straight you won't be," Wolfwood confirmed, crossing his arms in somewhat put-on agitation."I'd actually like to make it to December in one piece."

"Oh, but I do still have to run back to my room and get my coat and gun and things. Would you be okay waiting a few minutes? I'll be quick."

"Yeah? What useless junk are you gonna weigh me down with _this_ time?" It was common knowledge at this point that Vash would invariably messy the passenger car with various knick-knacks and trinkets that he'd collected over the course of their journeys, a fact that endlessly annoyed the priest. That, and Wolfwood couldn't pass up the chance to engage in more banter. It felt better than good. It felt _right.  
_  
"It is _not_ junk!" Vash whined, rising gloriously to the occasion. "And it's not too much, honest!" He began ticking off on his fingers. "It's just my gun, my coat, my duffel bag, my hair gel – "

_"Of course – "_

" – my handkerchief, my marble collection, my nice fountain pen, my book of A Thousand and One Riddles – "

"You _are_ a damn riddle, Spikey – "

Vash was down to two fingers. " – my leftover box of donuts, my teddy bear – "

"What the hell do you need a teddy bear for?!"

"To help me sleep at night. Although I guess I won't really be needing one anymore, will I? _You'll_ keep me warm, won't you Mister Priest?" And Vash batted his eyelashes at him: a gesture that was supposed to be completely absurd and yet somehow had exactly the opposite effect. Wolfwood found himself blushing again, entertained the thought of just throwing himself back down on the ground so Vash could finish ravishing him.

Instead he laughed and said, "Just get outta here, will ya?" He turned the gunslinger around and gave him a forcible kick in the back, sending him bounding over to the lift with exaggerated giggles. When he was gone, he half-stumbled, half-sprinted over to the motorcycle and listened.

There was no voice. No demonic taunts. Nothing. All was complete, perfect silence.

Drawing deep breaths, Wolfwood leaned against the motorcycle and looked up.

His vision was filled with stars.

And for the first time, he really _saw_ them. Perfect, twinkling harbingers of light, shedding their comforting luminescence from billions of iles away, unperturbed by the dust clouds that would interrupt their cosmic voyage.

_And the darkness comprehendeth it not.  
_  
"Thank you," he said to the sky, and for the second time in six years, he wept.

* * *

"They're gone," Brad said.

"I see," Luida said, unsmiling.

"We searched everywhere. They didn't leave a thing behind except for these crappy cheap sunglasses." Agitated, he dangled a dust-covered pair of dark glasses from his fingers.

"Is that so?"

"You could at least be a little more concerned, like the rest of us! Don't they know they don't have the luxury of going on their joyrides anymore? What the hell's so important that they thought they could just leave? What if they don't come back? Humanity will be doomed!"

"Oh, they'll be back," Luida said, and now she _did_ smile. "Those two have always looked out for each other. Wild tomas couldn't drive them apart. And Vash has always been more resourceful than any of us can imagine. They'll be back, and sooner than you think. And after that... after that, we shall see."

* * *

_The End_


End file.
